


Time To Pretend

by Everlind



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Biting, Buff John, Bulges and Nooks, M/M, Oral Sex, Quadrant Confusion, Scratching, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 19:20:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3907636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everlind/pseuds/Everlind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d been in the kitchen, back to you, identity unclear. </p><p>Long legs, narrow hipped, mussed black hair. Biceps that flexed with every enthusiastic hand gesture. Broad shoulders made for manhandling, for taking, for owning.</p><p><i>I want to climb that like a tree</i>, you’d thought, and then John’d turned around and said ‘hi karkat!’, smiling like he was genuinely glad to see you. Beefcake, buff lumberjack, horribly true, with his neckbeard and plaid vest and shoulders straining the seam of his shirt. But the smile had been the same, as well as the dorky snort-laugh.</p><p>He’d said yes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time To Pretend

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [CaffinatedChelonian's](http://vanberts.tumblr.com) [wonderful](http://vanberts.tumblr.com/post/118351688691/for-everlind-who-wanted-buff-john) [fantastic](http://vanberts.tumblr.com/post/118507200191/buff-john-will-be-the-death-of-me-bonus) [buff](http://vanberts.tumblr.com/post/118406751641/more-buff-john) [John](http://vanberts.tumblr.com/post/118092396786/not-enough-buff-john-bonus)

 

“Wait, whose room is this?”

“Who the fuck cares, get on your knees,” you shove at his head.

You’re surprised he lets himself be shoved and even more surprised he does go down to his knees, hands reaching for the front of your jeans even before he’s properly settled. He does it slow, easing the zipper down in torturous increments so you can get a good feel of the metals clasps grinding apart in stops and starts against your bulge. You hiss and roll your hips, moaning quietly at the idea of someone else’s hands - _his_ hands- on you.

Your nook is so sopping your boxers are practically glued to you, the wet fabric peels away tackily. Your bulge follows, unsheathing in a heady rush. A trail of wetness slides down the inside of your thigh. You try not to shake.

And there, on his knees before you and face-level with your groin, is John Egbert.

Last thing you expected to be doing (hah) this evening, to be honest. It’s his fault though, for growing up handsome. God, you’re angry about that. Angrier at yourself, even, because it really shouldn’t fucking matter how handsome he is if you genuinely were over him. Which you were supposed to be sweeps ago, goddammit, you made such a big spectacle out of it, too, and now this. Again he’s proven you wrong, you don’t think you can forgive him (did you ever?). At least now he’s going to get what’s coming to him.

Your bulge curls out against your lower stomach. John stares at it, blinks, and pointedly takes off his glasses to set them safely aside.

“Know what to do with that?” you sneer, twitching your hips at him.

John flicks his eyes up -bright bright bright blue- and leans in.

Licks along the slit of your nook and up the underside of your bulge. Holy mothergrub of _fuck_. Your head thunks against the wall, sending a frisson of pain down the line of your spine as your horns scrape along the plaster. Your bulge lashes out against his forehead -he’s quick to pin it down against your stomach with a hand and catch the tip of it with his mouth, lips open and slack so you can glide along the moist heat of his tongue.

The rasping noise that explodes out of your mouth is all sorts of humiliating, half chirp, half growl and all gasping want. You smack a palm across your mouth to smother it. Just in time, because John’s hands run up your legs, knead restlessly at you thighs and reach around to get two palmfuls of your glutes. He spreads them wide enough you can feel the lips of your nook ease open right along. The next lick is purposeful, a drag of his tongue through your dilated slit, the upflick swiping the underside of your bulge. You swallow hard.

You can smell yourself, sharp and sweet, and John’s lapping at your nook with these showy strokes that show off the streaks of red along the flat of his tongue.

Holy shit. You put a hand in his hair and curl it around your fingers.

John stops to pant against the top of your thigh.

“Had a troll girlfriend sometime last sweep, I’m guessing?” you ask, extremely proud you are producing actual words that make actual sense and are not actually ’please John take me now oh god oh god’.

( _Was it Terezi?_ you don’t ask)

There’s the smallest delay in his reply, just enough for it to count as hesitation before he answers, “Yeah.”

Oh- _hoh_.

You bare your fangs at the ceiling victoriously. Not so straight after all. John must know he’s busted, you can tell he’s blushing from the heat of his face where it’s pressed against your leg. It’s very tempting to push. Or worse, give him shit for it, since he rejected you before by waving his sexuality in your face. Sorry Karkat, your gender disqualifies you forever. Bullshit. This? This is happening.

You can’t believe it is, actually. Today was supposed to be just another painful trip down memory lane. Eight humans and twenty-six trolls -of which two ex-cherubs- makes for… interesting reunions. All you want is for nobody to get fucking killed, if that isn’t too much to ask. You’d been prepared to step up as the conciliatory two wheeled device the way you’ve done previous times. You’d not been prepared for John.

Five years. 

A lot can happen in five years. 

He’d been in the kitchen, back to you, identity unclear. 

Long legs, narrow hipped, mussed black hair. Biceps that flexed with every enthusiastic hand gesture. Broad shoulders made for manhandling, for taking, for owning.

 _I want to climb that like a tree_ , you’d thought, and then John’d turned around and said ‘hi karkat!’, smiling like he was genuinely glad to see you. Beefcake, buff lumberjack, horribly true, with his neckbeard and plaid vest and shoulders straining the seam of his shirt. But the smile had been the same, as well as the dorky snort-laugh.

He’d said yes.

For some reason that suddenly gets you. You’d interrupted him mid-sentence to ask whether he wanted to fuck and all he said was ‘okay’. 

Thoughtful, you stroke claws through his hair.

John’s just touching you with his fingers now, tracing the puffy edges of your nook before dipping inside and out again, slicking you with your own wetness. Ever so often he turns his head to drop a kiss on your hip, your bulge. You pet his hair restlessly, looking down at the sliver of his face you can see, grunting when he gives you a second finger, whining when he pumps you open with them. It’s a bit of a stretch, almost gritty rough because his fingers are blunt and calloused as he tucks them upwards in short jabs that ramp up the hunger for something smooth and solid fucking you, pressing inside and pinning you in place until you shatter from it.

“John.”

“Kind of busy here,” he murmurs, dipping his head to swirl his tongue around his crooked fingers. Languidly sucks at the slick folds of your nook, pulling the sensitive flesh between his lips in a prolonged suckle. 

You _scream_ and pull his hair, but all that gets is a low groan into your nook. Eventually his chin comes up when you force your leverage, high enough for you to feed him your bulge. You get swallowed up, wet and so _so_ soft, almost unreal, nothing at all like the rasp of a troll tongue. All you can do is stare at his ridiculously pretty face stuffed full of your bulge.

You’re going to come.

“John… John, get off.”

He snorts and you can practically see him gear up for a “I’m trying to” remark.

“I’m not joking, windbarf, I’m going t—“ you stutter to a stop as he pulls his fingers from you, face going hot at the slurp your nook gives. His mouth follows moment later and he has to sit back on his heels to catch his breath, swaying faintly. “You’re good at that,” you inform him, and yes, alright, you’re being a complete asshole about it, making sure it had enough of a mocking bite to it without having to call him a cocksucker. He is though, and a very good one. Well. Practice makes perfect, doesn’t it?

John just looks at you, and doesn’t say a single thing.

God, it pisses you off. God damn him. God _damn him_ for doing this every single time, for being handsome and saving all your fucking lives and generally being so much better than you, nicer, funnier, stronger, a better leader… a better person. 

A hero. 

You’re not even sure anymore if you want _him_ or want to _be_ him, but you do know you’re absolutely fucking furious he’s finally giving you what you want —he… he wasn’t supposed to do that, he was supposed to prove you right and turn you down again. This will ruin you.

You’ll never get over this. Over him.

You hate him for that.

Hate him for looking at you like he doesn’t hate you back. Of course he doesn’t. John likes you. He tried hard to stay in contact, harder and more stubbornly than you expected him to, no matter how viciously you rebuffed him, ignored him.

“C’mere,” you snarl, yanking at his ugly plaid vest to haul him to his feet.

And that’s when it goes wrong.

You’re making a truly excellent head start at shredding the clothes from his body, fuck clothes anyway, they’re hideous and you need to get your hands on him already, god, how the hell did he get so ripped anyway, cheating piece of shit, fuck this asshole you’re absolutely going to—oh.

Lips on the edge of your jaw.

Lips on your cheek.

Lips on the bridge of your nose.

Your forehead.

Mouth.

It’s so soft, so shy, so sweet you can hardly stand it.

It’s as chaste as a kiss from a moirail, close-mouthed and barely brushing. A peck, really. Would be perfectly innocent if it weren’t for the fact you can smell the weird sugary tang of your spunk on his lips. 

Why is he doing this?

For a moment you consider easing your claws out of the fabric of his shirt and… embracing him maybe (missed him, fucked it up, could’ve been _friends_ , best friends), but no, no, see, dammit, see? There you go. It’s like he bulls his way inside of your blood pusher and makes you feel. Feel. FUCK that. _NO_.

You rip his shirt. The sound of the fabric shredding is satisfying as fuck.

“Jesus, Karkat!” John yelps, clearly taken aback.

You revel in this small petty victory. That’s right. You’re in charge here. Not John fucking Stupidbert and his stupid blue eyes and his stupid kisses. Nope, not on your watch.

And what a watch it is, holy shit, you should consider switching careers. Damn. _Damn_. There’s internet-inspired descriptive garbage for his pectorals, whole memes even, and probably a whole separate category for his abdominal muscles, as well as the V wrapped around his hips.

And yet all you can fucking say is: “You’ve got hair on your chest.”

John snickers. “Yeah, that sometimes happens.”

“It’s weird.”

“Says the dude whose dick looks like an overeager octopus.”

“Says the dude who has… hair on… your belly, why is that a thing. Isn’t your furry state of being supposedly to protect the vulnerable parts? Why is it on your belly? What good can it possibly do you on your stomach?” you trace the dark trail running downwards from his navel with a clawtip until you hit the edge of his pants. “Like that’s going to fucking save you if someone stabs you.”

“I think it’s more like, er, hygiene and for body warmth and stuff?”

“Clearly,” you say dryly. “Because that’s the first thing that comes to mind when I look at your chest toupee. Hygiene. You disgusting mammal.”

John grins, teeth flashing white, and tucks his mouth against your ear. “Moooooo,” he says, because who even knows the fuck why. You shove at his face, he kisses your palm, so you bite his throat.

You expect him to recoil. In fact, you’re so out of sorts you kind of want him to recoil, you’ve bitten hard enough to bleed him. All you get is a small gasp and a shiver, his eyes fluttering shit.

“Like that, huh?” you growl against his skin. It’s soft and smooth his skin, a little salty. Nice. Close and heady. Wants you, you can tell.

Breathing him in has your nook give this needy little throb, all ‘give me’, still pleasantly raw from being fingered. You don’t want him to be kind, to be gentle, you want him to fight back and give you hell for being a spiteful failure. You need that from him.

“John?”

“Yes,” his Adam’s apple bobs against your fangs.

“Don’t be nice to me.”

There’s a moment where you’re sure he’s going to draw back, draw away, leave, that’s how still he goes, like you gutted him. But then he nods.

Keeps his word, too.

Slams you into the wall next time you bite him, finally bites you back when you rake claws down the length of his back. His teeth are too blunt to really break your skin, but the burning ache of the pressure is fucking fantastic in a completely different way, speaking of bruising that’ll last days instead of bleeding. A nice painful memory.

That’s good, you like that, you like how hard he grips your hips, trapping you, that’s great, you can growl and scratch at him for that, yank his hair while you nip at his lips. You taste blood and your libido _roars_ through you.

“Just— stop, messing around, you uncoordinated idiot, god, fuck me already.”

“Fine,” he bites back and goes for the button of his jeans.

His fingers are shaking and the sight of his helpless fumbling lifts something sweetsharp into your chest, something that tightens your throat. You palm his belly, loving the way the muscles contract under the skitter of your claws, and slide down to help him out of his pants with a soft _ah_ of relief as they pop open. You blindly shove them down his long runner’s legs, unable to tear your eyes from thick ridge of his cock trapped under his boxers. You get rid of those, too.

His cock is gorgeous, fuck. Thick enough to give you a little twang of apprehension, but it looks good. It’s big and unyielding, almost tense. Feels nice, too, the way it fills your palm, warm and delicately soft and hard. Solid. You stroke the shaft with the pad of your thumb, feeling a curious thrumming hum through him. Hmm, yes, you know what to do with that -you dip your fingers across your nook to get them wet and slick them over the tip of him.

That has him crumble, shuddering over you as he braces his forearms against the wall, breath hot against your right horn. There’s soft, muffled sounds that get lost in your hair, exhales and gasps and groans as you pump him in your hand while you think about having a nookfull of that, of him.

You can’t remember the last time you were this turned on, nor the last time you were close to someone you knew, someone you trusted. Someone you liked.

“Are you just going to huff into my hair or—rr-RR _SST_!” 

Two hands curl around the back of your thighs and your spine grazes upwards against the wall as he lifts you.

You whine when his dick skates along your nook, it’s accidental, he’s still bracing and arranging you to his liking, like you’re just a thing to be fucked -you’re so okay with that, as long as he hurries the fuck up. There’s no need for you to cinch legs around his waist, he’s totally got you, but you do so anyway, reeling him in until your crotch is tucked against his lower belly, the indents of his abs good and snug against the slick tenderness of your nook.

“You’re so impatient,” John complains, grappling with your ass as you rut yourself up against his stomach.

“Not like you’re doing anything useful,” you tell him, growling as cold air rushes between you.

One handed, he lifts you. Looks you in the eye. “Karkat? Shut up.”

He takes dick in one hand and trails himself through the lips of your nook, spreading you wide around the blunt head. Drops you, just a little, just enough your own weight sinks you down on his cock.

“ _John_!”

“Shh, it’s… tell me if, if, oh, you feel good—“

“It’s fine, just. Do it—“

“—so wet, and-and warm, god, come here.”

His dick slides into you slow, shocking with how thick it is, how your nook has to stretch to take it, the raw overwhelming pleasure-pain of it radiating out and through your body until your fingertips tingle with it.

Someone is saying fuck fuck fuck over and over in a pitched breathless voice. Your throat is dry and your head is light and your claws are anchored deep into his skin. There, down between your bodies you can see him jut into you, your nook red and swollen around his girth. You lick you lips at the sight of it.

John hums, deep from his chest, you can feel it vibrate through his thorax. Kisses you. Isn’t like the first one at all, no, he’s sliding his tongue across the contours of your slackened mouth, slow and languid, completely careless whether he catches your lips or fangs or the inside of your mouth, it’s all equal to him.

He can’t get inside all the way -he tries, and you make a little stupid noise of frightened pain you instantly wish you could swallow back into nonexistence and he _stops_ , damn him, he stops (you deserve his worst, you want that, why won’t he just…).

“Don’t you dare stop,” you snarl into his face. “Don’t you dare, I need, ah, ahhhfffuck, John!”

“Stop yelling in my ear, geez you’re loud,” his voice is husky, the complaint almost fond. “Always were a screamer, you,” he adds, ruefully amused.

You scoff. “Yeah? And what’re you going t—“ 

Hand across your mouth.

“Did you hear that?” John muses into your stunned silence. Stops moving, the total asshole, so he can pretend to listen. Happy grin. “That’s right, nothing. All nice and quiet now.”

He fucks you like that, just the tiny bit of his dick that will fit dipping in and out you. It’s maddening and fantastic, pressure-pleasure-release-gone-no, oh, yes yes, don’t stop. John’s hand remains clamped tightly across your mouth, you’re furious for that, as well as stupid with arousal, not to mention massively confused at the soft caress of his thumb against your cheekbone. 

There’s no hurry, he sets a pace not meant to drive you to a crashing orgasm, no, just enough you go heavy and slack from it, filled up with needing and wanting and sensation, literally being fucked stupid. Doesn’t help that it’s John and that he’s beautiful, the swell of his biceps tensing and releasing as he holds you ready for him, a wholebody move that rolls down from nape to calves and up again.

You feel feverish, drawn tight, not sure what to make of his happy pleased noises and the way he murmurs “Feels so good,” against your cheek.

Some of that clear wetness that beaded at his tip earlier is released in you and suddenly there’s a sharp shock of activity as your seedflap reacts to it, nook clenching down like a vice, hungry for more. John grunts, you honestly chirrup for him, and even as he gives an airy chuckle his cock gives a appreciative pulse that has your toes curl.

Familiar tension floods you, you’re actually going to-going to need a pail, ah fuck. You scrabble at his shoulders, whine into his palm. He removes it.

You suck in a frantic breath. “John, I gotta, _John_ —“ you begin, panicky, and then you’re being kissed, really being kissed, the sort you’ve seen in romcoms.

Flushed romcoms.

Close faced, with fingers trailing through your hair and shaking exhales and wanting moans. Fuck. Fuck it. You wrap arms around his shoulders and pull him close, kiss back, and let him fuck you to completion against the wall. He’s close, you can tell from the way he surges into you, hard enough your body jumps in time with his trusts, white-hot bursts of contact that have you whine with it. He lets you do it, mouth caught snagging at yours but not kissing, listening to your keening.

His climax takes you by surprise, because he stops— just pistons into you _hard_ , once, twice, and then his fingers bite into your ass to spread you wider and _there_ , you can feel him throb into you. Your nook _seizes_ , reacting to his genetic material, and the first taste of your orgasm rushes up in a rush of static white that numbs your lips.

You writhe on his dick -almost almost so close so close- arch in his arms —it’s enough to change the angle, to take him farther, sinking down deep enough his cockhead kisses your shame globes.

You come screaming. The relief is overwhelming, beyond the gush of genetic material being released; it sweeps away all the godawful loneliness, the hurt and anger, the helplessness, the disgust and pain love wanting unfairness hate abandonment disappointment, all of it, leaving you clean and clear like a pane of glass. 

By the time the last aftershocks leave you, you find yourself curled around him, clinging to his front, face buried in the curve of his neck. Hair spills thickly from between your fingers, you absently knead the handful you have. John sighs and noses the top of your head. Fingers tickle against your nape until he finds your earlobe, he pinches it playfully between his thumb and index, massaging it. The other arm is slung under your ass, you’re effectively sitting on it, legs dangling loosely at his waist.

“Can you stand?” his voice is rough and thick.

A giddy laugh crosses your lips. “Fuck no,” you say, and squeak when he hauls you away from the wall to stumble the both of you over to what is —oomph— a bed, on which you’ve just been dropped. 

You just sprawl, senseless, bouncing lightly on the sheets. Try not to think about the puddle of your slurry sinking a permanent stain into the hardwood floor. Much better to watch John as he crawls up next to you skin gleaming with exertion, and flops down with a sated exhale.

Both of you lie there for a moment, side by side and staring up at the shadowed ceiling, covered in your jizz. Your mouth works around several ideas, emotions, complaints, praise. His name. In the end all you manage is: “I told you not to be nice.”

John snorts, loud and exasperated. “You’re so stupid, Karkat,” he says, voice cracking on your name.

Before you can turn your head to snarl at him he grabs a handful of your hair, climbs on top of you and finishes that first kiss he started. The soft, sweet one.

Kisses each corner of your mouth, before playing lips gently across yours. Little jolts of your cupid’s bow catching at the fullness of his lower lip, barely pressure, but it has your heart beating heavy as you lie under him wide-eyed. Somehow it’s closer than him fucking you, more intimate than his head between your legs, and before long you can hear yourself make these pathetic, almost frantic noises on your exhales, like he’s smothering you under the sheer affection.

John finishes with a neat kiss to the centre of your mouth. “You okay?” he’s whispering for some reason.

“No,” you hiss, flinching at the sudden wet heat streaking down your cheeks to dribble into your hairline. “Goddammit, John,” you cover your face with your hands. “I hate you so much.”

John just strokes your hair back from your face as you choke back more tears. He’s braced over you, barely resting any weight on you. It’s protective, like you’re his flushmate and he loves you.

Waitaminute.

“John?”

“Hm.”

“How-“ no, not yet. You need… for him to not be here right now. “Could you get something to eat downstairs? I’m starving, didn’t eat before we… came up here.”

Pause. His thumb smoothes a curl of hair around your horn. “Sure.”

You watch him get dressed from the corner of your eyes. No boxers, just that fantastic ass disappearing into his jeans. No shirt, -hah, you tore it to shreds- buttons up his plaid vest instead. Steps into his horrid yellow sneakers barefooted, leaves the room.

The door clicks shut and you’re left alone.

Oh god. What did you just _do_ (besides probably have the best sex of your eleven sweep life)? Did. Did you just force caliginous sex on someone who’s flushed for you? Someone who’s John.  

Did.

You just have sex with John?

John who said _okay_ when you asked whether he wanted to fuck (god, you’d been nasty even then, had just thrown it at him; want-to-fuck, why did he say yes, he deserves _better_ ).

Downstairs you can hear a sudden outburst of cheering. Goddammit, you think you even hear someone cracking a champagne bottle. There’s applause and drumming on the tables.

Well. Not really a surprise, you _were_ loud enough.

And it’s been a bit of a running joke, really, the Karkat-Terezi-Dave-Jade-John debacle of utter emotional constipation. With, yes, you got it, you and John the only ones to not have dated, kissed or fucked in any way, shape or form. Just you gagging for it.

John’s voice is raised in good natured reprimand, there’s a burst of booing, then more laughter. You cover your face again, count your exhales and don’t think about that last kiss, the way he looked at you, his fingers swirling through your hair.

Not gone for long, John returns before you have yourself properly under control, but he doesn’t say anything about the arm you’ve thrown over your eyes. There’s a wet slap against the floor (your face heats when you realize he’s mopping up your genetic material) and a click of china against wood. When he sits on the bed, you make yourself react, pull yourself upright next to him. The room is dark. You absolutely have no recollection of what it looked like, just the wall, and John filling up your senses.

“I got pizza,” he says. “Its cold, but-“

“It’s fine.”

“I, uhm, also got you wet washcloth.”

You blink at him, owlish, and continue to do so when he twist his leg up on the bed to smooth a damp cloth over your belly. Even after being thoroughly fucked you find your skin still sensitive to him, the warmer memories of sex returning to your bloodstream as he dips across the insides of your legs, your buttocks, your nook. He doesn’t linger.

The pizza is cold, but tasty and you devour two pieces in complete silence before you can stand to talk again. “John. Don’t sit there like an eyesore of a wardrobe malfunction. I’m naked, it’s weird as hell. Take your clothes off.”

He lifts one brow. “Again?”

You roll your eyes. “Again.”

John smirks, or at least he tries, because it wobbles apart as he speaks. “You just want me for my body,” he teases.

Ouch.

Oh, goddamn. “John.”

“It’s okay,” he rushes to interject. “I was just teasing.”

“Liar,” you tell him, softly.

John doesn’t answer, conveniently preoccupied with getting undressed. You watch him do so, outlined in blue night shadows, the way his shoulders work to shrug out of the fabric, the powerful sleek lines of his body. The plaid vest is blue, as are his jeans. That in combination with his yellow sneakers… on purpose or unconscious? You don’t know what’s sadder.

He’s stepping out of his jeans when you ask: “How long?”

The bed dips under his weight, nearly tipping your shoulders together. You don’t bridge the distance. “God, Karkat, what does it matter.”

Alright. That’s fair. “I’m sorry,” you whisper wretchedly. “I didn’t know. I should never have—“ you can’t get ‘hatefucked’ past your lips, probably because it is not quite true.

“It’s okay. I like it, when… y’know.” He rubs at his neck. In the darkness his blush looks like a bruise.

“Rough?” you offer.

Shrug.

Pffff.

Then: “Karkat?”

You grunt, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, last of the pizza sliding down to fill your stomach. It’s only as you set aside the plate you notice he hasn’t followed up on your name plus question mark. “What is it?”

“Can we just,” John swallows. “Just a minute or so is fine, but. I’d like, if you don’t mind-“ his hands come up to uselessly grasp at the air.

“You complete nerd. Come here.”

He’s quick to crawl into your arms. He’s heavy, and very warm, and utterly lovely, and just a kid like you, really, you may have saved the universe and died several times over to accomplish it, but this has you both lost and wrecked, and the embrace has that intensity -of holding on while paradox space shatters to kaleidoscopic shards of creation. 

 

Of course, the both of you do the stupid thing, and have sex again.

(and again)

 

(again)

*

Morning arrives. You’re more than a little sore, still shaky from that last time and completely unwilling to wake up. Not now, not ever. But there’s a sunbeam slanted across your face, soft red light glowing through your lids. You turn your face away and blink them open.

Well.

That’s a sight you could stand to see every morning.

John’s sprawled on his belly, face smooth and heartbreaking in sleep. Somewhere during the night the duvet rode down, exposing the powerful plane of his back, the exquisite tuck at the small of his back, the lush swell of his ass. Bite marks pepper his neck and shoulders.. as well as his left buttock, whoops. He’s covered in scratches and bruised all over, god, you all but fucking mauled the poor sod, and yet he seems so peaceful, so open and trusting with his back unprotected —a visual compilation of a massive quadrant clash. Almost like the poster boy for a sordid concupiscent magazine centrefold

Looks _good_ like that, the utter asshole.

You lie there and watch him, remembering the last time you fucked. Both too tired for it really, it had taken ages, but you’d had his long legs wrapped around your waist and breathy moans of your name against your shoulder and him holding on to you like he’d never wanted anything else. That was nice. Fuck, more than nice. It was. Well.

Oh, god _damn_ it.

“…’s too early to be frowning Karkat,” John mumbles, one eye cracked open. Begins to stretch, freezes, and turns his face into the pillow to utter an upset wale noise.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have my mammalian dictionary on me and therefore cannot translate ‘mmmfrrrooogghow’ into English.”

“It means you were so rough last night, gosh,” he mutters. “Do I have any skin left, like at all?” 

“Didn’t hear you complaining when it was happening.”

John’s curls his arms tighter around the pillow, as if he’s attempting to smother himself back into a state of unconsciousness. His cheeks bunch, betraying a poorly hidden a smile. Yeah, he definitely enjoyed it. Doesn’t mean he’s not sore now though. Probably hurting quite a bit. Not unlike you for that matter, feels like he repeatedly punched you in the nook with his dick.

Felt sexier when it was happening.

The mattress creaks faintly when he twists onto his side to face you -it didn’t yesterday. This night. Two hours ago. Not that you remember? Maybe you broke it with all the… the strenuous physical activity? Who knows. Who cares. Not you. God, you want your goddamn cupe, you’re so tired and achy and confused, and really not ready to have any sort of conversation consisting of words beyond ‘give’, ‘me’ and ‘coffee’.

There, on John’s face, is his patented friendleader real-talk face —yeah you’re not escaping the imminent verbal smackdown looming in those baby blues. Just what you needed to spoil the last of your afterglow.

You expect… well, you’re not sure. Never fucked John Egbert before, did you now? Ha fucking ha. Hurt, anger, confusion, sure, seems logical. A small, bitter part of you is even still fully convinced he’ll go _jk no homo_.

What he says instead is:

“So. D’you wanna go on a date sometime?”

You do a slow blink. John mimics you, apparently amused beyond reason, raises a brow to finish it off. _Well?_

You splutter. “Jesus, John! What the fuck?”

“C’mon, how is this even surprising, dumbass? I like you. I don’t know how that isn’t obvious after having sex with you like, three times in a row.”

“Four times.” It’s automatic, out of your mouth before you know it.

You earn a delighted grin for that, the one that brings those unfairly charming dimples to his cheeks. “Counting, were you?”

Your face goes hot. Oh mother of cumguzzling fuck.

Seriously, you’re such a god damned idiot. It was a trap, a test, and you walked right into it like a blundering nincompoop with both thumbs stuffed up his colon. And what the fuck does he expect, really? Just him mentioning sex has your skin prickle to life with haptic sensation, of him moving over (against, behind, under) you, mouth hot against your jaw —weren’t counting, no, but it’s seared fever bright onto every inch of your wretched self. You’ll be carrying the memory of him with you for a long, long time.

You very carefully don’t say anything.

(don’t tell him how sex and love don’t always go hand-in-hand)

John flinches anyway. “Guess that’s a no then?”

You can see it drain from him, the hope, the tentative happiness. The warm glow is replaced by something that leaves him wane and awfully pale; a process of withering without breaking. He was hoping for a yes and you gave him nothing.

I like you, he’d said. He means it. Really means it. This… isn’t a morning after tasting of _goodbye, it was nice, see you later_.

One of his hands is palm upwards between you both, fingers curled listlessly. Before you can change your mind you reach out to hook your index around his pinkie. “It’s not no, stupid face,” you tell him gruffly. “Just confused.”

John stares at your entwined fingers. Blinks once, twice, and then you see how he physically bites back the uncertain smile that threatens to bloom across his face.

You got this. Step one of not breaking John Egbert’s heart. So far so good.

John plays your fingers together, trying really hard not to look as chuffed as he so obviously is. Briefly you think about just kissing him, that’d be nice, that’d be easy, roll around in the sheets, see if you can manage a fifth time. Yeah. Would get the point across just fine. Would be easier than talking.

John’s dead set on getting answers, you can tell by the crease between his brows. “So, just confused. Like angry ‘just confused’? Because you were kind of being a massive jackass at the start.”

“Slander and lies. I am a fucking ray of sunshine and you know it.”

“You were angry.”

“I am always angry.”

“Oh, ha ha. You are disqualified as the green musclebound adversary on account of being short and gray. Also we already defeated one of those and we didn’t get to continue in new game plus with all our nifty upgrades and powers we worked so hard for,” he informs you mock-seriously. Briefly you think the conversation’ll fold to familiar bickering. “Anyway” —crap— “What gives?”

You grimace. “I’m an asshole?” you try sardonically. “No? Okay. It’s just that. Just. You’re _handsome_.” The last is all but spat out.

John frowns. “I’m… sorry? I guess?”

“Shut up, I wasn’t finished. You’re handsome and attractive and it’s not fair, because I— I still have feelings for you, and you… weren’t, shouldn’t, weren’t supposed to say yes. It’s stupid, okay? I know it’s stupid and selfish, but I asked you, because, god, I don’t know. To prove to myself it’d never happen. That having feelings for you was pointless. I was supposed to be over you and I wasn’t. I just… wasn’t. So I took it out on you,” and for that you’re so sorry, absolutely miserably sorry.

“Oh,” John goes, almost delicately. Fits the pad of his thumb to your palm and avoids your eyes. “Those feelings… pitch ones?”

“Yes. No. Fuck, both and neither—” 

—oh god that look on his face, he doesn’t want pitch, rough isn’t the same as pitch, he thinks half of last night was you hating him. Wasn’t -isn’t- John made sure it was beyond that, more than the sum of all your quadrants and then some, horrible perfect shit that he is. You curl a finger under his chin and kiss him, every kiss you shared rolled together, languid and biting and cherishing until he shakes with it— 

“—hey, hey, it’s not only pitch, you know it’s not just pitch.”

The kiss is thorough, just about him, not about sex or anything at all really. Good and close, wandering contact from your mouth to his and back, lips and tongues and hands, giving-taking-meeting, until you have him flush (hah) against your front, a long gorgeous streak of warmth and adoration licking his way into your wanting mouth. 

You pull back enough to look at him, breaking the kiss, but not the contact. John’s watching you from under his lashes and breathing heavy against the threshold of your lips, blushing all pretty between your palms cradling his face. His mouth has gone all swollen, you work the tip of your index along the curve of lips until his breathing hitches. 

This… really isn’t a mere crush. How were you so fucking blind? Goddamn. 

“So. How long have you wanted to go on a date?” you ask him, trying for blasé and missing by a mile.

John snorfles a little. It’s reassuring he’s still a complete nerd underneath all the hot. “I didn’t just wake up one day and went golly gee gosh darn I sure have the gays for Karkat, dude. It just, I don’t know, happened? Gradually. It’s how you act around someone you have feelings for? You’re very. Hrm. So I… kind of had feelings about you having feelings for people that weren’t me? Does that make sense?” 

“No,” you say flatly.

John paws at his face, like he’s trying to scrape away the embarrassment. “It’s the way you look at someone you like,” he admits.

What? The way you what?

Confusion must be plain on your face, because he gives a half-shrug. 

“The way I look at someone?” you demand roughly.“I mean, that’s what you wanted? For me to look at you like that?”

He levels up to a full shrug this time. You… can’t believe it. That’s either the most romantic or the most nonsensical shit you’ve ever had your auricular sponge clots assaulted with . 

“Christ, John,” you shake your head, giving a rough amused noise. “You’re weird as shit.”

“I’m _serious_!”

“Hm. So, am I looking like that at you now?” 

John’s first reaction is to scoff, roll his eyes even. Can tell he’s about to flap a hand at you, wave it off even, now that he’s all flustered, but you resolutely refuse to look away, tracking his avoidant eyes with yours, forcing him to look at you —outright challenging even, frank enough it’s clear refusing would equal losing (not just flush, either).

He meets your eyes.

You just look at him, at his dark mussed hair and clear eyes, the love bite at the corner of his jaw. This is John. You met him when you were six sweeps old. You played a game together -you, him and with a whole lot of other people- and he died and he fought and he lived and he cried and he survived. Together you made a new universe. 

Feels like it should all be more poignant, vivid, less bland somehow -and yet it’s fragmenting and blurring until you only have a handful of flickering dreams left. Or nightmares. Mostly nightmares. A loading screen will give you massive anxiety. Time is relative yet inexorable. The hungry blackness of space is comforting in its utter desolation. Red became your favorite color. 

Those things are still true.

But there’s a lot of new memories, too.

Like last night.

John’s lips part a little. A waver comes to his eyes and his jaw clenches, overwhelmed. It’s a totally helpless expression that twists your pusher inside out, heavy and sharp with the sweetest sort of pain. 

It’s a fragile thing when he realises it, a slow dawning understanding. That’s okay, he can take his time wrapping that pretty air filled head of his around it. 

After all you still have that date to plan.

For now you curl against him, John instinctively shifting onto his back to accommodate you in the curve of his arm. With your head on his chest and a nose pressed to one thick pectoral you can hear the beat of his heart. The combined scent of your sex is heavy on him, smelling of warmth, breathing, belonging. Of mate and friend and rival. Best of both worlds, or any damn world left out there for that matter.

A nap would be nice. John’s hand is heavy on your nape. Everything in you goes quiet, and you allow yourself to purr.

That gets an almost wondering laugh, he purrs back at you (like that, the actual word, the idiot) and laughs some more. Mrrgh, that’s nice, the staccato tightening of muscle in his body, yes good, continue —aaaaand it’s already stopped. Why did it stop. You peer up.

John’s staring at the ceiling, a look of complete consternation on his face. Blinks once, frowning. Blinks again, head lilting to the side, then to the other, puzzling something out. Squints and… goes very still as horrified recognition slowly spreads across his features.

“Karkat?” he whispers.

“John?”

“Don’t look at the ceiling.”

“What’s on the ceiling?”

“A… horse. Part. Yes.”

You don’t look at a ceiling. However, you shift your attention away from the sex-mussed tangle of sheets towards the _rest_ of the room, really seeing it for the first time. Latex body suits. Hobbles. Gags. Crops. Tongue curbs. Cuffs. Spurs.

A saddle.

The covers have little cavorting horses on them.

Well, at least you figured out whose room you fucked in.

 

Zahhak is going to _kill_ you.


End file.
